


Through an eternity of loneliness and joy

by Fatale (femme)



Series: domestic 'verse [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Babies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:31:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first day or so, Neal briefly entertained the idea of being one of those stylish dads with bespoke suits and BABYBJÖRNS strapped to their chests</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through an eternity of loneliness and joy

Through an eternity of loneliness and joy  
Slight Peter/Neal  
PG-13 for saucy language, no other warnings

A/N: If you don’t enjoy Peter/El/Neal, this is your stop. Please exit the train after this fic. Stands well enough alone, but I'm tying up all the loose ends in another fic. I don't do chaptered fics, just so you know.  
WC: 2,300-ish

As always, spectacularly unbeta’ed. Feel free to point out typos and crazy leaps of logic that don’t make sense to you and I’ll do what I can.

Sequel to [Helpless, lovely](http://fatale.livejournal.com/238185.html).

 

 

The first day or so, Neal briefly entertained the idea of being one of those stylish dads with bespoke suits and BABYBJÖRNS strapped to their chests, but somewhere between day two and three, he gave up and now he’s just grateful he remembers to wash his face before work so no one can see the _tear tracks on his cheeks_.

His eyes feel like the Sahara Desert, his feet might as well be made of lead, the way he’s shuffling around, and there’s spit-up on his tie, but none of it matters, because Sofia slept for forty-five minutes at a time last night, which is better than the 15 she’s managed thus far. In parenting, Neal reasons, you have the celebrate the small victories, or else it’s just tears and poop.

Diana takes one look at him and smirks, which confirms what Neal’s secretly suspected all along: Diana is a deeply terrible person.

“Baby keeping you up, Caffrey?”

“Ha ha. Keep laughing, this might happen to you.”

“Lesbian,” she reminds him gently.

“Lesbians have babies, too.”

“Not this one,” she says firmly and hands him a coffee, which he takes gratefully and mentally amends his previous judgment of _terrible person_ to _awesome, maybe_.

Mozzie and June are joint baby-sitting Sofia and he’s definitely not the best father ever, possibly not even in the top billion, but he likes to think there are limits to the trouble he can get into with a small child. He’s not sure if he could say the same about either of them.

His fingers twitch towards the phone in his pocket, which he changes at the last minute into an movement to smooth his tie, because it’s his first day back at work, he’s been here less than fifteen minutes and he refuses to check his phone for messages or pictures. Again.

He’s not _obsessed_ or anything, it’s just weirdly quiet in here.

 

*

 

The DNA comes back a positive match.

It isn't like Neal hadn't been prepared, hadn’t briefly entertained fantasies of breaking into the FBI labs and switching out the results if it turned out Sofia wasn’t his--

There’s something terribly wrong with him, Neal realizes with an unpleasant feeling; he’d been planning to possibly _steal his own baby_.

Every time he thinks about it, though, when sitting at his desk and letting his mind wander, it’s nearly a full twenty minutes before he can trust his legs enough to stand.

 

*

 

June buys her a frilly pink outfit with a matching headband, which she takes a picture of while Sofia’s sleeping, and sends Neal the picture on his phone during his lunch break.

Neal - oh, fuck - Neal can’t even stop looking at it the rest of the day.

 

*

 

El invites him over for dinner, via Peter, possibly because word has traveled that Neal’s become frighteningly snappish and malnourished.

He stops by his place to pick up Sofia. Mozzie informs Neal that she’s on a sleep schedule with relish, clearly pleased at having informed Neal about another one of those basic facts of life that everyone seems to know except him.

“When does she need to nap?” Neal asks. It makes a terrible kind of sense, a sleep schedule, instead of falling asleep when one or both of them is exhausted from crying.

“I’ve written it out for you and posted in on the refrigerator and I made up some extra bottles and packed your diaper bag. You’re welcome.”

“Thanks, Moz.”

“So, when are you getting a new diaper bag?”

Neal looks up at him in confusion.

“Oh, Neal. This one’s _pink._ With _flowers_.”

“ I - uh, yeah. Right now.”

Mozzie sends him with a list of all the other things he needs to pick up since apparently Neal’s not supposed to just carry Sofia everywhere and let her sleep wherever she feels like it. There’s cribs, changing tables, bottles - and Neal can’t possibly imagine himself walking into a store and asking for nipples with a straight face.

“You’re really great,” Neal says seriously. “I couldn’t have done this, you know, without you.”

If a shrug could look gratified and pleased, Mozzie’s does. “It’s an orphanage thing - the older kids always took care of the babies.” He says after a short pause, watching Neal pick Sofia up, “You’re not doing a bad job.”

“I’m doing a terrible job,” Neal says.

“No, you’re not. Trust me, I know the difference.”

 

*

 

It’s not that Neal didn’t know in some oblique way that women would likely find him irresistible with a baby, it’s just that in none of his various imaginings, was he way too tired to give a damn.

Women flock to him. He can’t get four steps down any one aisle without someone stopping to talk to him or coo over Sofia, and she does look awesome, so he’s a little flattered, but it’s getting late and Elizabeth’s expecting him.

After checking out, Neal takes what he needs immediately with him and arranges to have the rest delivered.

He has the BABYBJÖRN on, though he’s not sure it doesn’t ruin the lines of his suit and make him look really stupid, besides. Practicality wins out in the end, because for the first time in nearly a week, he has both hands free. A surprising amount of stuff in life requires two hands and now, he can do them all -- the world is his oyster, he can rule the universe!

He really needs to get more sleep.

Also, Neal may or may not have also bought little white socks with ruffles and bows to match the pink dress June bought her. Along with the entire Stuart Weitzman collection of baby Mary Janes.

 

*

 

Neal arrives with Sofia only a half an hour late, which is pretty good these days. He tries not to wistfully remind himself of a time when he was always on time for everything.

El takes in the strange picture they make, Neal in his suit with a baby strapped to his chest a little self-consciously, with the amused acceptance people grant dreams; it doesn’t make any sense, but okay, if they’re playing it that way.

As he enters their house, he remembers that he forgot to pick up wine, which is an oversight he wouldn’t have made a few weeks ago, but he doesn't think he could have gone into a liquor store with a baby strapped to his chest, anyway. He’s pretty sure there are laws against that sort of thing.

“I’m sorry,” Neal says in an embarrassed rush, “I didn’t bring anything--”

“You brought yourself and Sofia,” El cuts in. “That’s all we expected, sweetie. I feel like it's been too long since I’ve seen you.”

He hugs her, carefully around the baby, his arms barely long enough to go halfway around her shoulders. This is how all of his relationships will be from now on, he realizes with a sharp, fierce ache.

“She looks great,” Peter says, taking in Sofia’s filly pink dress, matching socks and shoes, and doesn’t make an immediate move to touch her, like everyone else does.

It strikes Neal then, that for all of Peter’s badassery at changing diapers and feeding times, he’s not really much of a baby person. Or rather, he’s totally confident with the procedural stuff, but as for what to do when Sofia doesn’t particularly need anything from him, he seems at a loss. Neal doesn’t blame him, he likes Sofia a lot, and as far as babies go, Neal thinks she’s ace. But she’s still a baby and other than crying, there’s no conversation or games to be had.

He puts Sofia in the new stroller, which he hates, but it’s a necessary evil since he’s traveled so little with her, he’s not sure what she’ll need over the course of the evening, so he brings everything. Getting into a cab with a stroller in New York is no joke.

The chicken parmesan that El makes is perfect, just the way he likes it.

Neal tries not to be overly grateful for the food, and keep his groans of appreciation decent and not like some bad porno. He's clearly not doing well, since Peter keeps shooting him vaguely alarmed looks and across the table, El’s flushing slightly. Chinese takeout is great and all, but MSG isn’t a food group for a reason.

“So, how’s everything going?” El asks eventually.

Neal pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “It’s…good,” he says finally. He’s not certain what his life has become, he’s not even sure if good is an adequate answer, but he and Sofia are relatively healthy and happy, so.

Peter beams. “Didn’t think you had it in you,” he says.

“Neither did I,” Neal replies honestly.

 

*

 

Before he goes out to the back porch with Peter for some beers and a Manly Talk About Neal’s Future, he checks on Sofia, changes her with a speed that makes Peter’s eyebrows inch upwards, and realizes with a deep satisfaction that he’s become some kind of _diapering ninja_.

El brings Sofia into the kitchen to keep an eye on her while she cleans up the dishes and looks more nervous than Neal’s ever seen her before.

 

*

 

They’re drinking beer and Neal takes a long drag from the bottle, peels off the label in small strips and makes a tidy pile.

“Do you think you could find someone for me?” he asks eventually.

“Alex?”

“No, I - I’m working on that. Someone else.”

“Sure,” Peter says slowly, thoughtfully. “I can try.”

“My mom,” Neal says.

He hadn’t thought about his mom for years, hadn’t seen her for longer. In the window, the only light on in the house is from the kitchen and he can see the shadow of El rinsing off dishes, long and distorted against the floor.

Peter’s curious, but he doesn’t ask.

“I can try, call in a few favors. It’s going to be difficult,” Peter says. “I assume this is off the books?”

Neal feels a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Is there any other way?”

 

*

 

Neal thinks of his mom, raising him alone. She wasn’t a bad mom, exactly, she was just...absent.

Some years were better than others. One year, she made him a Batman costume for Halloween and brought brownies for all of his bake sales at school. Other years, she just couldn’t seem to get herself together, nothing seemed to go right for them. She’d oversleep, forget to pay the bills, let the dishes pile up in the sink.

He’d left all that messiness as teen and never looked back. Until now.

Sofia wiggles against his chest while he watches TV. She’s growing fast - her clothes are already starting to get a bit snug around the middle. He absently runs a hand through her soft curls.

 

*

 

Peter tells Neal that he couldn’t get his mother’s phone number, but he did manage to get Neal’s number to her.

It’s in her hands now.

Neal thanks him, patiently waiting for Peter to offer some sliver of wisdom, some _Peter-ism_ , but Peter seems determined to stay stubbornly neutral on the subject. He seems to think this is something Neal needs to work through on his own, which is ridiculous.

Peter loves to interfere in Neal’s life. Peter makes interfering in Neal’s life look like an Olympic Sport.

He doesn’t know whether he’s relieved or angry that Peter doesn’t pry.

 

*

 

They’re working on a simple bond forgery case, when they decide to check up on a real estate lead. The lease was run through a deceased relative, through a shell corporation. On paper, it looks like their smoking gun, but there's no real way to know without doing a little recon.

The problem is, Neal forgets that criminals are paranoid bastards. They shoot first, then ask questions later.

 

*

 

Peter’s pinned down in a warehouse, backup is coming, but they’re four minutes out and three armed men are advancing in Peter’s direction.

Neal could provide a distraction, it might be Peter’s only chance of getting out of this unscathed.

He thinks of Sofia, of her blue eyes, her curly hair, getting long. She’s going to need a haircut soon or he’s going to have to figure out how to style girl’s hair. Or, or --

If something happens to him, she’ll be utterly alone in the world.

Peter. Peter --

He runs towards the sound of the gunshots.

 

*

 

Afterwards, when they’re both riding the high of a job well done, Neal grabs Peter and hugs him hard.

Peter’s smile is incandescent, radiant. His hand rests on Neal’s cheek a little too long.

“That was a pretty stupid risk you took back there,” Peter says, but his eyes look proud. “Thanks.”

Neal shrugs, tries to play it off. “You would have done the same.” He’s serious, though.

Neal’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he slips it out to answer. The background image is the picture of Sofia that June sent to him. Peter sees it and the smile slips off his face, leaving something frightened and tired in its wake.

 

*

 

Trying to put a squirming, unhappy baby into a one-piece is like putting Jell-O into a balloon - you know it’s been done, you know people that know other people that have purportedly done it, and yet, you can’t imagine how one would accomplish such a feat.

Neal gently rubs his palm over her belly, soft and rounded, her mouth working around the pacifier until she settles down.

He reads _Goodnight Moon_ to her and feels his eyelids droop.

 _In the great green room_  
there was a telephone  
and a red balloon  
And a picture of the cow jumping over the moon--

His phone rings and he answers it hurriedly, afraid of waking Sofia up.

Over the phone, he hears a familiar voice, tinny and distant, and it yanks him through decades of memories, both good and bad, filtered through time, like a watercolor in the hands of a imprecise artist.

“Hey, mom,” Neal says. “It’s me.”

 

 

 

The end.

 


End file.
